


Some Value in Sentimentality (Perhaps)

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Flashes Unknown, Unseen [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always blame the morphine, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Interstitial, Morphine, Scene unseen, season/series 3 spoilers, sentimentality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His own thoughts, that second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Value in Sentimentality (Perhaps)

Here. Invariably here every time I wake, my fingers interlaced with his. Does he realise he does that? Or is it an unconscious thing born from a need for reassurance? So human, but oddly comforting is this physical, tangible knowledge that he is here. Always here.  
Vague snatches come back to me, this time and the time before. In the ambulance, when he probably thought I was fully unconscious, not half-lingering below the surface, unable to break clear. And after the surgery. Both surgeries. Of course he was here then, long hours spent in an unforgiving chair and why? What for? Who knows? This is more human sentiment than I can understand right now. (Because I am the one left in this hospital bed, something whispers, something that sounds oddly like his voice, but isn’t because I’m watching him and he didn’t speak. I am the one hooked up to far too much morphine for my brain to function as clearly, as pristine, as it should.  
Perhaps that is why I am sentimental now, with him half-dozing beside me. Still holding on.  
(When in doubt, blame the morphine. Yet, the dreamy haze is oddly relaxing, enjoyable. As is the quiet it brings.))  
The worry from before is still etched around his eyes, joined by something more now, something I can't quite deduce with all of the blessed-cursed morphine. Anger, perhaps. Sadness, maybe. Who's to say? I doubt if he himself fully knows.  
Yet, the knowledge that he is here because I am here is oddly touching in its simplicity. What have I ever done to inspire such a depth of feeling in him? Faked my death and gave him two years of grief. Lied, drugged him, didn't see in time what his wife truly is. Sentiment. Sentiment has brought us into this mess, blinded me to essential knowledge that I should have seen faster. Much like the morphine.  
(Sentiment is why he is beside me. Sentiment is why I am alive now. There is something to be said for it, after all. Perhaps.)  
So many plans to make around all of this new information. Some other time though, too tired now. Too warm inside at the memory of his starry, tear-filled eyes when I woke and squeezed his hand, further affirmation of my continued survival. I knew he needed it then, needs it still now, so I don't untangle my fingers from his, instead let them rest where they are and sink deeper into the pillows.  
My eyes slip closed and I sigh, feeling sleep hovering again at the edges of my consciousness. So much sleep, too much at a time like this with so much else to do. With a marriage to save and a shark to take down, and more besides. (The extra deduction, the baby on the way.) Body's betraying me, though. Nothing to be done. Inconvenient though it is, it is safe now to rest. Insidious network long destroyed, immediate danger safely passed. Even half asleep, he is on guard. Once a soldier, always a soldier.  
(Sentiment.)  
Instinct.


End file.
